


Sing

by babyrubysoho



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dream Sex, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Sansa makes her own choice for a change, The Hound somehow knows what to do with a woman, everyone has a nice time, the hound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 13:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6856558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyrubysoho/pseuds/babyrubysoho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa has a dream, and encounters someone she thought she would never see again.<br/>(After more than a decade of fic writing, this is my first ever hetero story. Such is the power of the Hound and Sansa's creepy relationship! Ahem.)</p><p>WARNING: Set some unspecified time after AFFC, putting Sansa at about 14. While this is technically underage, within the books' universe and the (vague) historical time period, this would be marriageable age. Still, if this point bothers you, you may want to give it a miss.</p><p>*Note: I am currently transferring 12 years’ worth of my fic from various murky corners of the Net to AO3. So if this looks familiar, that’s probably why. Either that or I’m just appallingly unoriginal…*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing

Sansa Stark was tired of being Alayne. She was tired of the sidelong looks people gave her when they found out she was a bastard; she was tired of the loneliness, of having no-one to share her thoughts with when the desire to _be_ Sansa again, if only for a few minutes, was almost too much to bear; and she was most tired of her “father,” Petyr Baelish's, advances.

But there was nothing she could do. There was no-one left in the Seven Kingdoms who cared enough about her to miss her now – unless you counted the people who wanted her imprisoned or dead for a traitor, which she didn't. And so Sansa continued to let life sweep her off in a direction she did not particularly care to go in, wanting to act but unable to do it alone.

There was one person, perhaps... one person who could have helped her, though the thought made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.  
_Him_.

 

* * *

 

Sansa was with the Lord Protector during his receiving hours that morning. Sweetrobin had had another fit, and was dead to the world in his chamber, and Petyr liked to have her beside him. She suspected he didn't trust her; she wished she were doing something interesting enough behind his back to merit his distrust, but until she thought of what that something might be, she would have to sit here in the East hall and suffer boredom for no reason.

The list of petitioners, complainers and informants seemed particularly long this morning, but was broken by the arrival of Brygan Torlish, a sellsword for Petyr who was better with his brain than his blade, and had been down to King's Landing and the riverlands, to keep the Lord Protector informed of what people were doing and what those people thought _he_ was doing. There was no word of Tyrion, Brygan reported, though the search for him and his Stark wife was still continuing. Sansa tried to keep her face blank. The city was full of rumours of what Stannis was doing North at the Wall, and there were more raids on villages in the South. Sansa tried not to look too interested in all this, since she was only a bastard, after all, and not sure how intelligent Alayne should appear to be.

“What else, now?” mulled Brygan, apparently in no hurry. Sansa let her eyelashes droop, and sighed inwardly; sometimes it was hard to keep up the mask of courtesy, deeply ingrained though it was. “Oh yeah, here's a titbit for you. Sandor Clegane has finally given up the ghost, so I hear.” Sansa's eyes slammed open.

“Dead?” said Petyr sceptically, eyebrows raised. Sansa heard herself catch her breath at the word, felt an odd jolt in the pit of her stomach; she didn’t know if it was relief, or the fear that the name brought back, or…or something else. Sheer disbelief, maybe.

“He _can’t_ be!” she gasped, surprised at the vehemence of her own voice. “Someone…someone must have lied.” She caught her “father” giving her a quizzical look from the corner of his quick, intelligent eye, and pressed her lips together to silence herself. She did not need any more of her secrets in the Lord Protector’s lap.

“No lie, Lady,” said the sellsword laconically, spitting absently at her feet. Petyr did nothing to chastise him, but Sansa hardly cared at this moment. “I know a man who spoke t’ the man who buried him.”

Littlefinger shrugged. “Farewell, Hound. He needed putting down, as far as I can tell. Well, onto more pressing matters…”

Sansa had no ear for any other matter. She didn’t know what she felt. She had never believed the recent rumour of the atrocities in Saltpans that had been laid at Sandor Clegane’s door: she thought she knew him better than that; but she couldn’t deny that Westeros would likely be a safer place for a lot of people without him in it. Arya would certainly say so, if she was even alive.  
Was it relief, then? Or pity, maybe? Sansa had feared the Hound, so much at first that she could hardly bear to look at his ruined face; but he _had_ saved her life. He was the angriest man she had ever known, always on the very edge of losing his hold on himself, hating everyone around him; but he had been gentle with her, at least physically. His words were another matter, his taunts as harsh as his voice: she could almost hear him now, calling her “little bird,” the good side of his face grimacing at her all the while.

And then…then there was the night he had almost killed her, when the sky outside had run with brilliant green fire: when he’d come to her room in the darkness, drunk and bloody, and put a knife to her throat. She could taste the metallic fear in her mouth even now at the heat of him, the loom of his huge body over hers, a twisting in her stomach that was in some odd way linked to the discomfiting memory of her first flowering. And his kiss, oh, the most terrifying thing of all. She felt herself flush nervously; she’d tried to blank it from her memory a hundred times, but it wouldn’t go away: more than Joffrey’s kisses, or little Robert’s, or Petyr’s, it tugged him constantly to the forefront of her thoughts. He had kissed her, and she’d sung to him, and when she’d caressed his cheek she thought he had wept. Maybe that was why she couldn’t forget: it had been the last time she’d ever seen him, and the first that he had shown her anything but rage; and now, if Brygan was to be believed, the last time he ever would.

Pity, then, she decided, for a faithful dog. _One person at least should be sorry he’s gone_. Sansa knew, as much as she knew anything, that if they had met again the Hound would have been able to take her far away from Petyr Baelish, from everything and everyone here. He’d offered to take her with him before, hadn’t he? Sansa was sure she would have regretted going at the time; but now, she regretted _not_ going almost as much.

The Lord Protector talked on and on; Sansa curled up in one of the hall’s window seats, and stared out at the drop below, trying to ignore the dull weariness settling over her. _It’s just one more person dead_ , she thought to herself, _and it’s not as though I could ever call him my friend_.

It didn’t seem to help.  
  
  


* * *

 

That night Sansa dreamt, a dream so real that she did not know, at first, that she was asleep. In her dream, there was fighting in the castle, just like before; only this time it was _here_ , not at the Landing, and she was not safe in the keep but in the thick of it, arms tied behind her back as Petyr’s men struggled to ensure she didn’t escape. One of them shoved her down behind a barrel in the courtyard as men fought around her, the ivy and straw now spattered with blood. She did not know where Petyr was; she vaguely hoped he was dead. She had no idea who they were fighting, anyway; there were so many warring factions now, so many claims to the Iron Throne, that she could not keep track of who her enemies were supposed to be. _Everyone_ , she thought bitterly, eyes shut tight in a futile attempt to block out the sound of screaming men.

“Keep your head down,” snapped the skinny sellsword beside her, “or the Lord’ll have mine.”

Sansa screwed up her eyes and curled tighter into her corner behind the barrels and a stationary cart.

“Gotta get out of here,” muttered the ferrety man. Sansa didn’t know his name, couldn’t even remember how she’d got here in the first place. “We’ll make a run for it when -” He stopped abruptly, and her eyes flew open as something warm and wet splattered the side of her face. She turned to him. The top of his head was missing, and it was his blood that had fanned across her cheek. It continued to drip, drip, from the broadsword that pointed at her chest. Looking up, Sansa saw a soldier, though he wasn’t wearing any armour she could recognise. He was grinning.

“Got you, wench.” Sansa couldn’t breathe. “Now you come along quietly, or -”

Sansa didn’t wait to find out what “or” was; with a speed that might have impressed even her little sister, she ducked beneath his sword and rolled under the cart, scrabbling on her belly through the mud with the blindness of pure panic. She sprang up when she reached the other side, trembling like a fox before the hunt, and ran out into the courtyard, not seeing where she was going or the melee until a man collapsed in front of her, his leg gone at the thigh.

“Help,” whispered Sansa as his blood spilled out over her feet, not knowing to whom she was saying it but unable to stop or do anything else, even as she saw another man in chain mail turn towards her. “Mother, Mother, _help_ -”

A pair of hands like iron grabbed her bound arms, and she screamed.

“Shut up,” a voice snarled at her, lower and more fearsome than the growl of her dead direwolf. Sansa felt as if every hair on her body suddenly stood on end at the sound. It wasn’t possible! “ _Little bird_ ,” he said, those huge hands drawing her backward inexorably, away from the open courtyard. “What stupid game have you got yourself caught up in this time?”

 _It’s a ghost_ , she thought hysterically, almost sobbing, _or some dead thing_. He yanked her into an archway as the sounds of battle hammered at her ears, tugging her further in until her back was pressed against him. _He’s warm_. Sansa shuddered at the contact, her eyes tight closed, afraid to open them as if she had been a little girl again listening to her septa’s stories, until a growl of impatience jerked her head up; he’d been waiting for her to speak.

“Girl,” he said in the darkness, “will you come with me _this_ time?”

Sansa tried to turn, and for a wonder he let her, his gloved fingers hard now on her shoulders, keeping her at arm’s length. She couldn’t see him, not really…but it felt like him, and it _smelt_ like him, all blood and wine and ash. She took a deep, unsteady breath, scarcely able to believe what her senses were telling her. He shook her.

“Yes or no, damn you? I don’t have all bloody day.” Outside, the sun was going down in a dim haze, but there was no lull in the screams.

“Yes,” she whispered. He grunted, and the next thing she knew he was reaching behind her. She felt a blade against her wrists, cold and sharp, and then her hands were free. She reached up, arm shaking, high into the shadows where she knew his face must be. He froze for a moment as her fingers made contact with skin, then smacked her hand away roughly.

“Come on.” He strode off into the dark passage beyond the alcove. Sansa could do nothing else, so she followed.

As the sounds of fighting diminished, Sansa could hear the jingle of his mail, the heavy tread of his boots, and her own terrified breathing. She walked into him as he stopped, and scooted backwards hurriedly. She heard a determined exhalation, then the crash of wood as a door gave way before his massive shoulder. _He’s breathing_ , she thought incoherently. He grabbed her arm and she squeaked, but he ignored it, tugging her up a flight of narrow steps. His grip was painful, but he waited for her when she stumbled.

Into a different corridor now, more like a tunnel than the last and getting narrower and lower with each yard until he had to crouch and at one point even crawl in front of her. Sansa bent her head and shoulders, which was more than enough, and followed him. Eventually, when she had lost count of how many minutes she had been walking, listening for his breathing, he stopped.

“What is it?” she whispered. He didn’t bother to answer her, but she heard the sounds of his movement. Another splintering of wood, and red evening light gleamed in the tunnel. For an instant she saw his silhouette and his huge booted foot kicking at a shattered panel; then he dropped from view.

Sansa darted forward, coming to a precarious halt when she saw that the tunnel ended in mid-air: a drop twice her height onto rough grass and rocks. She perched in the entrance and looked down, and her heart caught in her chest as she saw him.

He straightened up, his back to her, in a circle of six soldiers, Petyr’s men, obviously guarding the little door. Another second and his sword slid out, heavy and massive as he was. The men took a step backwards, out of its reach.

“Look,” said one of them. “We don’t know who you are, and we don't care. Get out of here, and leave her to us.” _They're not afraid_ , thought Sansa, crouched in the raised doorway above them, listening to the guardsman speak. _They don't recognise him?_ _More fool them_.

Her ghost laughed, a rough, ugly laugh like the bark of a dog, and Sansa felt a shiver pass over her at how familiar it was. “We’ll get out of here all right,” he said.

“She stays,” said the leader again. “She belongs to our lord.”

“Piss on your lord.” Suddenly he was moving, his sword in and out of one of the men in front of him, almost too fast for Sansa to follow. The others gaped, then closed in. Everything seemed to happen at once: the lunging men, their flashing weapons, their roars; and the Hound turning, his long sword moving in an unstoppable arc to tear through one man’s chain mail at chest height and take another in the belly. Before the first man’s blood hit the dirt, the Hound had punched out with his left hand and smashed yet another in the face, sending him senseless to the ground. The other two circled him warily, and he turned with them, unconcerned as if he was swatting flies. He was grinning, that rarest of expressions, one Sansa had seen only once before, when he had pulled her from the mob in the streets of King’s Landing.

“ _Ohh_.” Sansa clutched at the stones of the doorway, her head swimming with a hundred different feelings at the sight of that face, a face she had once been too scared even to glance at. The three men took no notice of her. The leader narrowed his lips and went for Sandor Clegane; he looked stronger than the others, thought Sansa wildly, and indeed the man parried the first thrust the Hound aimed at him, and the next. She knew it would be no match, however; knew it right up to the moment the last soldier, a little man, almost wetting himself with fear but determined, jumped onto Clegane’s back. He couldn’t bring his sword to bear, and for the time being was little more than a distraction for the huge man; but a dangerous distraction, as he threw one arm over the Hound’s eyes in an effort to scramble higher. The leader took note, swung back his sword –

Sansa didn’t even notice her hand move; she didn’t know if was the old gods or just pure reflex that aided her, but in an instant she had grabbed up a heavy lump of wood from the ruined door and shied it as hard as she could at the man’s head. It caught him in the ear, and he howled with pain. A moment he was shaken, but that was all that was needed. The Hound was already tearing the little man off with a roar of annoyance; he flung him to the ground, and Sansa was both disgusted and delighted to see that his neck was broken. Then before the leader could gather his wits, the giant sword was swinging at him, almost ponderously; it hit with a terrible finality, slicing him almost in half at the waist. Sansa closed her eyes with relief.

“Fucking rats and their tunnels,” growled the Hound as the last man dropped, catching his breath. He shook his damp hair away from his forehead and walked towards her, wiping off his sword and kicking bodies out of his way. “Jump,” he suggested, looking up at her. Sansa swallowed; seeing him fight was so frightening, and she was nervous of getting closer, still not sure what he was; besides, it was high. “ _Jump_ ,” he commanded again, impatiently. “If you can’t fly, little bird, I’ll catch you.” She nodded uncertainly, and edged her legs out over the drop. One horrifying moment of weightlessness, and then she was in his arms and being lowered to the ground. Her legs were shaking beneath her, and for a mercy he didn’t let go, just waited, his large hands encircling her ribcage.

“Are we…are we safe?” she asked tremulously, then winced at how idiotic that sounded, sure she was in for one of his taunts.

“Not yet,” he said, and that was all, his voice low but with no apparent rancour. Sansa took courage from that, and from the gentleness of his hands, and looked up. The Hound was frowning down at her, habitual twitch pulling at the side of his mouth; it was so familiar that he was almost a pleasure to look on, in this world of strange things that was all Sansa ever saw these days. She wanted to smile, but she couldn’t, so she just stared at him solemnly, more boldly than she ever had dreamed of doing before, taking in the hideous burnt side of his face and the whole, and his dark grey eyes that seemed as angry with life as ever.

“What’s this, now?” Sandor Clegane said after a minute, his eyebrows folding down suspiciously. “Have you grown up, girl, that you can finally look at me?” He let her go abruptly, and she found she could stand. “I doubt I’ve got any better looking, so stop your bloody staring.”

“You’re dead,” Sansa explained, as she continued to take him in.

“Am I!” The Hound snorted, turned on his heel, and strode off. Sansa blinked, and trotted after him, her heart still racing with the uneasy thrill of seeing him, really seeing him, whatever he was.

She caught him down the hill, where he was untethering a tall horse tucked away in a patch of trees. The leader’s, she guessed. It certainly wasn’t his own vicious black. She wondered what had happened to it.

“Up!” he said shortly, and she stepped lightly into his cupped hands and swung herself over the bay horse’s back, her long skirts riding up her legs. He mounted up behind her; she wriggled forward to give him more room, clinging to the horse’s mane. He reached around her to take the reins in his right hand. “Keep still, shut up, and get that pretty hair of yours out of my face,” he told her, pushing her long locks forward over her shoulder. Sansa looked down, and saw a river of auburn spilling down her chest, instead of the dyed chestnut brown she had grown accustomed to as Petyr’s bastard daughter.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, relieved and disappointed all at once, because she knew what it must mean. “This is a dream!”

The Hound gave another cynical snort; she could practically feel him roll his eyes behind her. “Oh, I’m _sure_ you love to dream about me.” He nudged the horse into a trot, changing direction so suddenly that Sansa lost her balance, and slipped a large arm around her waist to steady her. Sansa felt herself blush, both at his sarcastic words and the action. “Dream all you want, girl,” he continued. “ _I’ll_ not sleep til I’ve got food and a bed and less chance of getting killed for the trouble of snatching _you_.”  
  
  


* * *

 

The Hound kept them riding, as twilight faded into the purple of early night. Sansa was aching and filthy and tired, but she didn’t dare complain; she kept silent, her head lolling sleepily, until she found herself sliding sideways and awoke with a jolt.

“Keep still, I said,” Clegane told her. They were the first words he had spoken for hours. Sansa nodded, then found herself falling asleep all over again five minutes later. The Hound caught her, swore in irritation under his breath, and tugged her back to lean against him. She stiffened, but had little choice but to let him be; her head reached only as far as his chest, and beneath the mail and leather and cloth she could sense the slow thump of his heart.

“What will you do with me?” she asked eventually. Even if this was a dream, she had no desire to be taken back to Cersei, and who knew where Tyrion was? She did not know exactly what Sandor Clegane had been doing since he had left her bed on the night of the battle, and she had no idea where his loyalties lay. To her surprise, the Hound chose not to ignore her this time.

“What should I do, I wonder?” he asked in that rough voice; she could feel the rumble in his chest as he spoke. “Who’ll pay the most for you? Who wants you?”

 _He said he could stop anyone from hurting me_ , she thought, dismayed. _Should I have ever believed that he would just let me go?_

“There is no-one left who wants me,” she admitted after a moment, with as much dignity as she could manage, trying to keep her voice steady. “My family…my family are all _dead_.”

“I hear your bastard brother’s been made Lord of the Black,” he said.

“Jon…” She had forgotten. Sansa felt a little flicker of hope catch inside her. If only she could see Jon again…

“Aye, him.” The Hound clicked his tongue at the horse, which managed another spurt of speed. Sansa clutched at his armoured forearm to steady herself as the pace changed. “Should I fight through a thousand leagues of the North and take you to him, then?” he asked her, his voice gravelly in her ear. She wondered if he was teasing her, or if he was actually offering. “Or would someone else give me a better price?” _Oh_. “Or…”

“…Or what?” she asked, heart in her mouth for a moment, not sure what that meant. But he had evidently decided the conversation was over.

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Sansa next awoke, the moon was up. She was still on horseback, and it was chilly, though she was warm all down her back where the Hound rode behind her, his arm still wrapped implacably round her waist. She blinked and looked around. They were going at a walking pace now, the horse looking as weary as Sansa felt; on either side of them were the ruins of a village: burned, just like dozens of others. There was no smoke rising from the remains of the wooden peasants’ buildings, but the stench of fire was still an assault on her senses.

“Where are we?” she asked foolishly.

“Hardly matters what its name was,” said the Hound tightly; it sounded like he was gritting his teeth. “It’s not worth spit now.”

Sansa took in the tone of his voice, felt the tenseness of his body against her back. She craned round to peep at him; he was scowling as usual, not looking at her, but she’d seen those eyes before. _The smell_.

“I’m…I’m sure it’s all burnt out by now,” she offered timidly. He grimaced, and pushed her head back round.

“Don’t need any of that pity,” he muttered, and under his breath, “I should have killed you after I told you that bloody story.”

“But-”

“Burning is coward’s work, that’s all,” he snapped, sounding so ferocious that Sansa closed her mouth again. But his arm around her remained rigid with tension as they rode through the village, looking for a whole house. She supposed they had to stay somewhere.

At the end of the widest street Sandor Clegane reined up beside a stone building, scorched but lightly on the outside.

“Landowner’s,” he said shortly, and swung down from the saddle, grasping her waist to lift her to the ground. Sansa almost fell where she stood, she ached so much. The Hound began to lead the horse towards a lean-to stable at the side of the house.

“I’ll go inside and…” Sansa started to say.

“No. You never know who might have got here first,” he interrupted; his words quickly brought her to heel, and she stood beside him as he tethered and unsaddled their mount. He entered the house first, sword half drawn; Sansa blinked in the darkness. There were three rooms, she thought. Hardly landed gentry, but the front door still almost closed, and there was little fire damage inside.

Clegane threw the horse’s saddlebags on the table, and eased himself down in front of the hearth.

“You need to get warm, girl?” he asked gruffly. Sansa wondered if it masked his fear.

“I can start a fire,” she reassured him; she’d learnt how from Bran, to humour him, years ago when he was full of passion and dreams of being a wandering knight. It hurt to think about Bran, though. She swallowed.

“Shut up,” rasped the Hound. “I don’t need some weepy girl who’s scared of her damn shadow feeling sorry for me.” He went to work, using twigs and wood left beside the fireplace, and soon enough it caught. Sansa saw him flinch back as the flame licked into life, but he just gave her a dangerous look and went on feeding the fire. She couldn’t stop watching him, as the light in the room grew stronger; perhaps it was the strangeness of seeing a dead man move about, or perhaps the knowledge that, when she woke up, she would never have the chance again. Apparently her gaze annoyed him; he glowered at her, handing her a twig torch.

“Go and look at the other room. There’s a bed in there, if your fine skin can stand the scratching.” She opened her mouth, then closed it again and obeyed; the room was small and so was the bed, but no amount of rough sheets would prevent her sleeping on it, she thought. She slipped off her shoes and long petticoats, but left her chemise and dress on against the chill; besides, who knew what they might have to run from in the night?

The bedclothes smelled like soot, and the mattress was lumpy in the oddest places, but Sansa was sure she would be asleep in seconds. She waited; she was so tired! Minutes then, in minutes. She turned over, huddling deeper under the blankets; the cold seemed to be seeping through the walls, but she knew that when her body had warmed the bed, she would sleep.

She did not. She told herself not to be a silly little girl; there was nothing to be afraid of here. Surely the Hound was more than capable of protecting them both against anyone who might disturb him; she ought to be able to sleep with him outside. She turned over again, shivering. Or maybe…maybe it was _because_ he was out there: a dead man, in the next room. Sansa tossed and turned, remembering the sick feeling in her stomach when Brygan had told Petyr that Sandor Clegane was no more. The cold drilled through the bedclothes to her skin. She remembered his cruel words, his rough hands, the kiss he’d stolen, everything about him that seemed to scorn the golden romantic notions she’d entertained of the beautiful Sir Loras, and even Joffrey, a long time ago.

Sansa sighed, and shuddered with cold. This was useless, this lying here. If she wanted to remind herself of how frightened he made her, she had only to go and look at him.

The Hound raised his head, sensing her presence as she padded into the room without having to see her. He had seated himself in the one whole chair, a wary distance from the fire, and was removing pieces of armour, sticky with blood. He must have been through the saddlebags; she saw stale bread and withered apples on the table, and a skin of wine at his elbow.

“Cat’s piss,” he said, nodding at it, “but if you can stomach it you’re welcome.” He slowly unbuckled the vambrace on his left arm. “What do you want, girl?”

“…It’s cold,” she said, watching his jaw tighten as he undid the straps. _Winter is coming_ , she thought, and swallowed hard.

“Well since you seem to have lost the last cloak I gave you, there’s not much I can do about that,” he said shortly. Sansa closed her eyes briefly against the memories that brought back. _Twice he gave me his white cloak_ , she thought. _Once to cover me when Joffrey had me stripped, and once when he left me_. She wondered what that had meant, but hadn’t known what to make of it at the time, either, had just been grateful for its warmth. “…Come to the fire, then,” he ordered her eventually. As she moved closer he peeled away the cloth strips beneath his vambrace, and she gasped: his left arm had been terribly burned, and recently, scar tissue just beginning to creep over the red, angry surface. _Is that real?_ She wondered, _or am I just inventing things in my sleep?_

“What _happened_?” she exclaimed. The Hound took a long swallow of wine, and reached out to the hearth to dip a clean rag in a kettle of boiling water.

“Doesn’t matter if I’m dead, does it?” He drew a deep breath. “Keep quiet or I’ll send you back to your bed.”

Sansa almost winced with him as he began to clean his arm, his distance from the fire making it difficult to reach the hot water. _No wonder he was so afraid tonight_ , she thought, and although he had twice warned her not to, she pitied him.

“Let me do it,” she said as he hissed in a breath, the movement of his right hand too rough for the raw new skin.

“Why should the highborn little lady want to do that?” he demanded irritably; his good arm shot out as she shrugged, and his steely fingers grabbed her chin. When Sansa looked into his eyes they were full of suspicion and anger as always, and pain. She raised her own small hand to his wrist and he glared down at it.

“You saved me again today,” she said, her breath coming swiftly and making her chest rise and fall rapidly beneath her loose dress. “I…want to help you.”

He stared at her until she flushed and dropped her eyes. “You always were late with your thankyous,” he said, and Sansa could no longer read his voice, which worried her. All the same, he let go of her chin and handed her the rag. Between the Hound and the fire she had a much easier time of it, cleaning his wounded arm as gently as she could, feeling guilty at every grimace, every flinch. Any other man would have been yelling, she supposed; he just grabbed her right hand with his left, squeezing it until she thought her bones would snap whenever she set the rag to his burned flesh.

“It’s done,” she said at last, when she had wrapped the last clean strip of cloth around his arm. She got to her feet unsteadily; he still had her hand closed inside his massive fist, as if he had forgotten it was there, and she couldn’t pull away. The Hound looked up at the sound of her voice, his face inches from hers. _A dim room and the firelight_ , thought Sansa wildly, her chest tightening, _how very like the last time_.

“Get out,” he murmured gutturally, releasing her fingers from their prison. “Back to sleep, girl.” She couldn’t move, her sense of smell, the keenest tool of memory, drawing her back to that night along a trail of blood and wine and fire.

The Hound didn’t stir another muscle, and Sansa couldn’t; not even her mind seemed to be working. Somewhere in the back of her head she wondered how long they would be at this impasse before Clegane shoved her away or hit her; he looked furious, and then again almost as disturbed as he had been by the fire, as her red hair tumbled over his broad shoulder. The sight of his fear gave her back some measure of movement, and her bruised right hand rose to cup his bristly cheek. Sansa wanted to laugh; _it’s just the same as before_. She wondered if she should sing.

“One second. _Go_ ,” rumbled the Hound as her skin touched his. “Else I’ll-”

 _One chance_ , thought Sansa incoherently, _before I wake up and this man is gone forever_. Before he could finish his threat she had leaned down the little distance, the curtain of her hair shrouding him in darkness, and pressed her lips tentatively against his. It wasn’t the same, though: his head shot back until it hit the chair and he raised his huge hand, to strike her or knock her aside, his dark eyes as wide as if it were her direwolf above him instead of her. Sansa flinched, but met his stare full on, knowing that looking afraid now would not make anything better. Before she could blink, his clenched fingers had spread to grip the back of her neck; they tangled painfully in her hair and yanked her down towards him. Then his mouth was on hers and a series of tremors washed over her; _this is it_ , she thought, horrified and tingling, _this is what I’ve been remembering, tasting all this time_. It was not gentle, or sweet or romantic, nothing like the dreams of a little girl; she could not even tell whether it felt good or bad. She just _felt_ , with every bone in her body, with every ounce of flesh, as he parted her lips forcefully to kiss her harder. That made her gasp, and then he was tugging at her and she was tumbling into his lap, her knees hard on the splintered edges of the chair and her breasts beneath their layers of wool crushed against his chest. He tore his mouth away then, when there was not another breath left in her body; she thought she was drowning in air as his lips moved to her neck, burning against her white skin.

“Little bird,” he growled, his voice like stone scraping on stone and so low she could scarcely hear it, just feel the movement against her throat. “ _What have you done_?”

“It’s a dream,” Sansa managed, his fingers digging into the small of her back, hurting her and driving her on, “it’s my dream, it doesn’t matter!”

“Stupid little girl!” His voice was shaking, she thought, before his teeth closed in her skin; she wound one arm around his neck, clinging desperately as he lurched out of the chair and to his feet; she did not know if he was drunk on the wine or drunk on her. Her own head was spinning as she slid helplessly down until her toes touched the floor; she had never imagined kissing like this, or what went beyond it – having Tyrion in her bed had been no education at all – but she could imagine it now, with _him_ , and trembled.

The Hound caught her, for the hundredth time, it seemed, though his arms were not gentle as they had been before. His dark eyes were glowing as he glared down at her, from the firelight, she thought, until she realised he was incandescent with anger.

“You want me to fuck you, girl?” he demanded, shaking her, his harsh voice full of disbelief and desire; she could hear it, see it in those furious eyes, how much he had wanted her, and she felt her nipples harden beneath her gown. “You want to put horns on the Imp, is that it? With _me_?!”

 _Tyrion Lannister is no more my husband than Petyr Baelish is my father_ , she wanted to tell him, but he was shaking her again and it was hard to speak. She reached up instead, past his burned arm and the wide planes of his chest, stretching up on tiptoe to try and draw him down towards her. But it was like scaling a cliff, trying to reach him. He was still now, breathing hard, his face twisted in the flickering light that caressed his burns and the side of his twitching mouth.

“Yes,” she insisted instead, though she was shivering as she looked up at him, hardly able to credit what she was saying. “ _Please_ , I want it!”

The Hound stared at her another brief moment, and gave a bark of disbelieving laughter; then he was kissing her again, towering over her, his hands running the length of her body over the thick wool of her dress, devouring her hungrily as though her lips could spill all the wine and blood he had ever dreamed of. Sansa was giddy, losing her air, her neck aching where she had to crane up to meet his mouth. He swore under his breath and pulled her closer, and now she felt the hardness beneath his jerkin against her hip; she let out a little noise between amazement and fear: truly, this would be nothing like it would have with Tyrion.

Her hands slid around his waist and then he was lifting her, easy as if she’d been made of spun sugar.

“You’ll let me into your bed again?” he rumbled, moving towards the other room without waiting for an answer. _I didn’t ‘let’ you the last time_ , she thought, but she was nodding anyway, nodding despite the little voice screaming at her from the core of her common sense. She ignored it, and he tipped her onto the lumpy mattress, the blankets cold beneath her but his body moving swiftly over hers, hands hot through her clothing everywhere he touched her. He was at her throat again now, open-mouthed and hungry, his large fingers working the buttons of her dirty dress. He gave a growl of frustration and she moved to help him, seeing for the first time how badly her hands were shaking; somehow the dress came undone and he was tugging it off her, so that only her thin chemise lay between his warmth and her body. His lips moved lower, down her breastbone over the fine fabric, his beard prickling her.

“Take more,” she whispered as he paused, his big hands on the curve of her hips. She felt strange, felt her body was on the verge of a discovery, an entirely new sensation that Margaery’s girls had only whispered and giggled about, and that the Hound, of all men, was drawing it out of her. He looked up at her then; he seemed as angry as when she had begun this.

“You _have_ changed,” he muttered, and she could sense disapproval in that rough voice, but lust too, his words thick with it. “If you’re so _eager_ , I’ll find out what you learned in the Imp’s bed.”

 _Nothing_ , she wanted to assure him, but his fingers were on her chemise, his breath warm against her collar-bone, and she couldn’t speak. The laces were knotted; he grunted, and as easily as tearing paper he ripped the thin muslin in two, her breasts spilling into his hands; they were no longer as small as when she had belonged to Joffrey, but they were engulfed completely in his fingers as he moved back up to kiss her, the rough fabric of his jerkin scratching her skin. She wrapped her arm around his neck, letting his tongue dart between her lips; his left thumb brushed a nipple and Sansa gasped, then moaned into his mouth as he squeezed, not gently: her breasts were still growing, and they were tender to even the lightest touch.

The Hound broke away from her again, following his fingers, his mouth leaving fiery marks across her sternum. He found her nipple, rolling his tongue over it and taking it between his teeth, his huge hands biting into her flesh; she arched up against his lips, hearing herself let out a little whine of mixed discomfort and desire, her fingers buried in the dark hair on the good side of his head. He tugged lightly at her breast.

“Sweet,” he muttered into her skin, and she shuddered. Sansa found herself panting, and wondered dimly why she felt no shame, none of the modesty that her nurses had cultivated so carefully for years and years. She searched for it, but there was nothing, just a vague fear and the strange, slow-banked furnace spreading its heat down from the pit of her stomach as Sandor Clegane continued his delicious assault on her body.

She wriggled, trying to struggle out of what was left of her underrobe as his hands moved downwards. The Hound gave a sort of muffled sigh and helped her, ripping the fabric down to the hem and pushing it aside. She felt his eyes fixed on her, all the way along her body.

“You’ve grown,” he muttered, fingers hot on her thigh, and she couldn’t decide if he sounded admiring or angry. She nodded shakily; there was hair between her legs now, as red and fine as that on her head, a dart of flame against her milk white skin. She hadn’t welcomed the way her body was changing, not when it drew the eyes of men she would rather avoid; but now she was glad, and scared, and excited, as the Hound nudged her thighs apart with a broad knee. She closed her eyes, red lashes fluttering against her cheeks.

“Look at me,” he commanded gruffly, and the next thing she knew his fingers were touching her lightly, his other hand hard on her lower back. Sansa did, her eyes snapping open at the strange sensation and her hand clutching at his arm; he was watching her, breathing carefully, waiting to see what she did. It didn’t feel bad, not exactly; but she couldn’t work out what expression to put on her face. Then his fingers began to move, an experimental up-and-down caress, and she whimpered.

“You’re wet,” he exclaimed, almost accusingly, as if he hadn’t really believed her when she said she wanted this.

“I-” she began, and then he was pushing his hand forward. She cried out at a sudden stab of pain: his fingers had hit something just inside her, and with a start she realised what it was. The Hound seemed even more shocked than she was; he recoiled from her as though he had been burned.

“ _You_ ,” he said, his face thunderous. _He thinks I’m a wedded woman_ , she realised, understanding his surprise. “Damn you, you’re still a _maid_?”

She blushed. “Tyrion never made me…well.”

“…More fool him,” muttered Clegane weakly, his mouth twitching as he shifted reluctantly away from her.

“I still want to,” she told him in a small voice; this didn’t change the odd desire she felt, not a bit. He gave a humourless bark of laughter.

“Don’t tempt me, girl.” His fingers lingered on the curve of her breast for a moment before he pulled them back firmly. “I stopped myself once before, the last time I was in your bed. I’m not so drunk that I can’t do it again.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered stubbornly, her hand tangled in the front of his jerkin, its dogs-head emblem staining her fingers with dried blood.

“Save it for someone else,” he told her bluntly.

“There isn’t anyone else.” Sansa raised her hand nervously to his face, the burnt side; he flinched but let her touch him, her fingertips brushing the scarred skin. His eyes closed for a moment, but he was not done.

“What would your parents say?” he demanded in a raw voice, “if they knew you gave it away to a _dog_? What would your sister say?”

“They’re _dead_ ,” she said, her jaw tight. “They can't say anything.”

“Hmph.” The Hound looked unmoved. “What about your little friends, then, with their pretty daydreams and their handsome bloody knights? What would they think, to see you with me? Look at me.”

Sansa did as she was told, as she’d been staring at him all night. _He’s over twice my age_ , she thought, _and almost twice my size; and he is awful to look at_. The Hound’s mouth twisted, as though he knew what was going through her head.

“I don’t care what they’d say,” she whispered. He snorted incredulously, but she went on, spreading her fingers to cup his cheek, her touch feather-light because she did not know how much the scars might still hurt him. “I don’t.” She forced him to look at her, his grey eyes piercing hers. “You were right, knights don’t mean anything! _You_ saved my life. You…You are the only man who has ever helped me and not _wanted_ something from me!”

“I _wanted_ something,” muttered the Hound darkly, his gaze straying unwillingly down her body.

“Then take it,” she challenged him, aching to be touched again, no matter how it hurt, no matter how angry he was with her. “There’s no-one else in Westeros I’d give it to.” _And I'll never have a chance to choose again_ , she thought. _Not once I wake up_. He met her eyes again sharply, but it was no lie, not now: Joffrey a monster and dead, Ser Loras a child's foolish fantasy, Petyr repugnant to her. She drew the Hound’s head down, her lips and her legs parting softly.

“You are mad, girl,” he rasped quietly, and his hands and then his mouth were on her again. Sansa could feel the banked anger in the tense muscles of his arms; but he was gentle now, wary, as her tongue moved tentatively against his, as if she were some timid animal that needed a delicate touch and patience to be caught. His huge arms went around her, hands covering a smooth section of her back to pull her slowly closer; her bare nipples pressed against his chest, and she sighed into his mouth, one leg riding up to curve around his hip. His belt and buckles dug into the soft flesh of her thigh, but she didn’t care, feeling both protected and apprehensive in the circle of his iron hands.

“Last chance,” the Hound warned her, in a dark rumble against her lips. “Pipe up that pretty voice now, or don't come crying to me afterwards.” Sansa didn't answer him, but took a determined breath and reached for his wrist; her fingers were too small to close around it, but he did not resist her as she drew his hand back down her body. It took no more encouragement than a kiss for one large finger to slide between her legs; she took an anticipatory breath, but he didn't push hard like he had the last time, just stroked her teasingly. Sansa let out a little noise, a pink flush breaking out over her cheeks and across her breasts.

“That's right, little bird,” the Hound whispered thickly against her neck. “Sing for me again.” He began to move his hand in a slow rhythm, two fingers sliding between her nether lips, and Sansa found herself gripping the sheets, arching up into his touch, a string of soft moans spilling from her open mouth. Here was something new again! she thought giddily, as his free hand pushed her damp hair off her forehead, tangling roughly with the red locks and tugging her head back to get a better look at her.

“Your hair's like fire, girl,” murmured the Hound resentfully, never stopping the movement of his fingers. “So why is it so...” He frowned and trailed off. Sansa had no idea what he was talking about, could barely think straight; her whole body felt flushed, her hips rising of their own accord to meet his hand. She no longer cared about his face, about anything but that _feeling_ , she was getting closer to it again now, that unnamed and frightening sensation that the women at court whispered about behind their hands. He had given up talking and was working his large fingers faster across a spot that felt like magic, leaning down to nuzzle her breasts, his tongue leaving damp swirls on her skin that stung as the chill air hit them.

“Please,” begged Sansa, not sure what she was asking for and not sure that Clegane would know either; she was overwhelmingly close to _something_ , but had no idea how to reach it. To her muddled senses it seemed as though he was taunting her again, as he always used to, only this time without words. “ _Please_...”

“No,” he told her bluntly, and she whimpered in frustration. “I'm not done with you yet.” He removed his fingers all at once, making her clench her teeth at the loss. His hands slid slowly up her sides, and he yanked her tight against him. Sansa swallowed as she felt the hard length of his cock through his breeches. She knew what he wanted, of course, she was not an ignorant little girl any more, so she reached down to work at the stiff buckles of his belt. The Hound was watching her darkly, his own breath coming quicker. She bit her lip, unable to work the fastening, and he covered her hands with his own, tearing the buckle free impatiently. She had less problem with the laces, and then she was touching him, the first time she had ever touched a man so intimately. She heard a sharp hiss of breath before he kissed her again, no longer gentle but ravenous and demanding. Sansa moaned, struggling with his jerkin now, but he was too big and she could not manage it.

“Stop,” he muttered into her mouth, and shrugged it off himself. He seemed even larger without it, looming over her; Sansa set her hands on him curiously, timidly: there were scars under her fingertips as she ran them down his torso, his skin as hot as hers where she pressed closer to him, the tips of her breasts tingling.

She could feel his length against the plump inside of her thigh, and a pang of fear caught the breath in her throat. The only man she had ever really seen was Tyrion, on their sad excuse for a wedding night, and even he had seemed terrifying to her then, short as he was. Sandor Clegane, on the other hand, was one of the biggest men she had ever met, and she wondered if this would even be possible. She set her jaw determinedly.

“I'm going to hurt you,” the Hound rasped at her, apparently not fooled by her show of readiness. One hand delved between her legs again, nudging her open. “There's no helping it. Yell if you like, little bird, but don't be surprised.”

“I don't care,” she insisted hotly, though the tremors in her voice gave her the lie. “I want you.”

“Then be ready,” was all he said, huge hand cupping her face almost tenderly for a brief second, before he snatched it away with a scowl. Then he moved and Sansa could not help crying out at the bright, shocking pain as he began to push inside her. The Hound grimaced at the expression on her face, but didn't stop until her breath was coming in short, uncontrolled gasps; she clung to him, nails digging hard into his broad, scarred shoulders. He grunted.

“The little bird has a Stark wolf's claws after all!” he muttered through gritted teeth, moving one hand firmly, soothingly over her back. Sansa had no retort to that, didn't think she could respond if she tried. _He'll never be able to get any further_! she thought wildly, praying for a futile second that he wouldn't try. But almost before she could form the thought he took a raw breath and thrust forward; something gave, and Sansa nearly bit her tongue in two, the pain spreading like wildfire up from her loins.

“Hush,” growled the Hound hoarsely, freezing above her as she whimpered. “I _told_ you.” Sansa made an overwhelming effort to stifle her sobs; she knew how it had always annoyed him when she cried. She took a series of deep, shuddering breaths, and he rested his forehead against hers, waiting. As usual, she could sense his patience was on a fine wire, ready to snap at any moment, and she dreaded that. She fought herself into calm beneath the pain, and was rewarded with a fleeting glance of approval, the first she could remember having from him.

“...I think...I'm bleeding,” she said faintly. Nonsensical, but the best she could come up with while he was so deep inside her. The Hound nodded as if this happened to him every day, though his expression was one of possessiveness and vague perturbation that sat ill at ease on his burnt features.

“Here, too.” He brushed blood off her lip with his thumb and leaned down to kiss her, his free hand supporting her raised thigh easily. Sansa had never in all her short life been this close to another person: his smell, his heat, the sheer solidity of him cut through the welter of pain, dizzying her and sweeping away any last lingering unease at just _who_ she was giving herself up to.

“Going to fuck you now for true, little woman,” Clegane whispered against her lips. He shifted between her legs, and a low whine escaped her. “So no more bloody tears, you hear me? I hate that.”

 _I've graduated from 'girl' to 'woman', at least_ , thought Sansa, screwing up her eyes in anticipation of more pain. It came sooner than expected, but less sharply, and she was almost able to keep from crying out. His movements rocked her, slowly at first and then harder, back and forth on the bed, her breasts quivering with each thrust until he took one teat in his mouth and the other in his vice-like fingers, squeezing until she was sure she would bruise like a ripe peach.

“ _Aaahh_...” Sansa bit her lip, but he didn't seem to mind that sound, and the sweet stab of sensation as he drew on her nipple briefly masked the dulling ache that was spreading through her lower half. She could not catch her breath, in the confusion of contrasting feelings he was inflicting on her body, and from a sense almost of claustrophobia as he braced himself on his elbow above her so as not to crush her.

“Scared?” he asked briefly, his own breathing tight and rapid and controlled. “Bite down if it hurts; I'll not even notice such tiny teeth.” She couldn't speak, it was enough effort even working out what he had said; she leaned up for a kiss to distract herself. The Hound paused, taking in her frown of concentration, and sighed shortly. “Here. Change.” He pulled out of her in one quick movement, and Sansa groaned with a mixture of relief and loss as he lifted his body from hers and the cold air hit her. He sat up and grabbed her by the arm, tugging her up with him.

“What should I-” she began, and the Hound made a face at her, his broad, scarred chest heaving.

“You really are a virgin!” he rumbled, pulling her over to straddle his lap. “Get on and stop talking.” A pressure on her shoulder from one large hand, and Sansa found herself lowering her hips onto him. He slid in easier this time, her passage slick with blood and her own fluids, and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he transferred his hands to her hips, beginning to move her, guiding her up and down, his callused fingertips biting into her flesh.

Sansa felt herself blush a deep scarlet; it was hard to meet his eyes; she had not known that men and women even did it like this, and it felt embarrassingly intimate, her forehead pressed against his. It did hurt less, though, now that she could move herself. She let herself go slowly, feeling the shape of him inside her, hoping he wouldn't be annoyed with her slowness, her lack of skill.

He didn't seem to be; his hand slid up her back, gathering her cascade of red hair as it went, a caressing movement that set her spine tingling. When she dared to look at him, his face, for once, was empty of expression, the habitual anger receded to some well deep within him. Sansa liked that face, didn't even care about the burns. She leaned down to meet his mouth, not stilling the movement of her hips, and with the kiss she felt once more the stirring of that strange sensation; a faint dart, no more, but she grasped for it and caught it, letting out a pleasurable moan against his lips.

“Clever little thing,” whispered the Hound hoarsely, biting lightly at her earlobe, one hand cradling the back of her head, auburn hair spilling through his fingers. “You dance pretty for such a beginner...”

“ _Oh_...” Sansa could not help the sound escaping as he dropped the heavy mass of her hair, sliding his hands back to her hips, fingers digging into her buttocks and pushing her harder onto him. The pleasure she was beginning to feel reached a higher note, harmonising with the pain; she could hear the Hound's breathing grow ragged as he forced her to speed up. She threw her head back, exposing her white neck. Her legs were aching, but the pleasure was centring to a point, growing stronger and sharper. Sandor Clegane's gaze was hot upon her, his dark eyes fixed on her face; she wondered hazily what he thought of her at this moment, of her chaste body that had so easily come alive and wanton under his hands.

“Hold on, little bird,” he ordered her, his voice a low, passionate growl. “...Just a minute longer.” Sansa didn't know if she could, or if he could, for that matter; there was a bright strip of colour high on his good cheek-bone, and a thin sheen of sweat on his skin, so that her fingers slipped as she tried desperately to cling to him. He began to move against her, getting faster; Sansa stifled another moan. He took a calculating glance along her body, and his fingers slid down to the place they were joined, drawing circles teasingly in a spot that made her head reel, but never allowing her to stop the rise and fall of her hips.

Sansa gasped, screwing her eyes shut as his fingers moved faster, the wave of strange feeling about to crest; it was too much, she wasn't ready, but he grasped her chin painfully and she had to open her eyes.

“No. Look at me. _Look at me_.” She could not disobey, remembered how angry he had always been when she could not face him; and then the wave broke over her, sending rough ecstasy flooding through every inch of her body. Sansa froze, heard herself make a noise that sounded stupid to her ears; but the Hound just gave her a look of grim satisfaction, the side of his mouth twitching, breathing hard through his nose. Her head swam, every muscle tense and quivering as the feeling continued to batter her; but it seemed he was not done with her yet, rather waiting to pounce. As the intensity of her climax slowly ebbed and her body turned fluid and relaxed, he began to move again, his cock riding easily up into her slick opening.

“Nnn...” Sansa let out a shuddering sigh, arms wrapped around his neck; after the first wave of pleasure came a heightened sensitivity; she could feel every movement inside her, her skin alert to the hot pressure of his lips, the heavy calluses on his fingertips. This following swift on the heels of her first finish was too much, and she was absurdly grateful when the Hound finally stilled, clutching her to him with a low snarl, a sudden wet warmth inside her. He buried his face in her neck, holding her so close that she could barely breathe, the muscles in his scarred back shuddering beneath her hands.

 _If this was real_ , Sansa thought giddily, _I could be having his child_. The thought was terrifying, and at the same time made her feel very adult. Mothers were made even younger than her, she knew. But this was a dream. None of it was real. Sansa carded her fingers through his dark hair, careful to avoid the burns, suddenly afraid to let go. The Hound suffered her to remain pressed against him until her breathing slowed and the beat of his own heart had stopped racing against her breasts.

“Off,” he said gutturally, after what seemed forever, lifting her away from him with no more difficulty than if she really had been a bird. She gritted her teeth at the sudden emptiness, feeling the air hit the stickiness between her thighs as he set her upon her back on the bed. _He's going to turn nasty again_ , thought Sansa, waiting for his face to fall into its usual scowl. She remembered he always had, especially whenever he had helped her, as if to vehemently deny even the possibility that he could be gallant. She gazed up at him, waiting to read the change in his expression; she was far more worried about that than the ache between her thighs or the bite marks on her breasts.

“What is it?” the Hound demanded gruffly, catching her stare. She pressed her lips together, not wanting to anger him prematurely. He leaned over her. “Come on, out with it. I hate women who won't even speak to me after I fuck them.” Sansa thought that was probably fairly telling about the way he usually treated his women, but certainly wasn't about to say so.

“I...” She cast about for something placating to say, but apparently her septa had not had this situation in mind when she taught Sansa her courtesies. She decided on the truth. “I didn't want you to get angry with me,” she said tremulously, and then her deeper fear, the one she knew she could do nothing about: “I don't want you to go.”

“Go!” exclaimed Sandor Clegane, giving half a laugh like steel on a whetstone. He cupped her face with both hands, fingers hard and bruising on the sides of her head. “Where am I going? You're not getting rid of me that easily, girl.”

“I didn't mean-”

“Beautiful, stupid little bird,” he continued in a low voice, glaring at her. “You think I'd take your first and then let you fly off?” A shiver rippled over Sansa, a confusing mixture of trepidation and illogical relief. “From now on, _I'll_ be your cage.” Sansa found herself leaning up, and his mouth brushed hers possessively. “I'll be your dog too. If you want it.”

“Why?” she asked. _I must not be afraid to talk to him while I can_.

“Why what?” The Hound sounded irritated, but lowered himself down, resting his massive head on her breasts, burned side uppermost so that the only way she could read the play of his expressions was in his grey eye.

“Why me?” prompted Sansa. He shrugged, muscles moving smoothly in his shoulders.

“Never had anything of my own before. Never wanted anything, mind; I had my place in the world. My sword, some wine and my brother to hate, I was happy as a pig in shit.”

“Oh.” Sansa couldn't think of anything to say to that.

“I knew you were going to be trouble, first time I saw you,” he told her. “Little Northern girl, all done up like those Southern court bitches, lies just falling off your pretty lips.” _I shouldn't have asked_ , she thought, stinging under the criticism. _I should have known better than to expect him to be nice to me!_

“I didn't know why I was so interested in you,” the Hound continued, relaxed and heavy against her chest. “Because you wouldn't look me in the face, maybe. Oh, Joff didn't deserve you, that's for damn sure, and why would you look at his dog? But I wanted to look at _you_. Wanted to make you see me.”

Sansa rested a hand on the top of his head, nervously, though he didn't sound particularly angry.

“It's not because you were a beauty,” he said adamantly. “I've known whores as beautiful as you. But I knew your little cunt would be the sweetest.” He tugged on the fine hair between her legs, and Sansa blushed. “I knew _you_ were. I knew by the time I left that I wanted you.” He sounded reproachful. “You should never have married the Imp. Should've come with me.”

“I know,” Sansa whispered.

“You sang to me,” he said, as if that explained everything. “How many girls would have done that?”

“How many girls' throats have you held a knife to?”

Clegane gave a sharp pull on the damp locks of red hair beneath his cheek.

“Now you're being truthful, girl!” he exclaimed, with a rasp that might have been a chuckle. Sansa, who had almost bitten her tongue again at the hasty comment, gave a smile of relief. “And yet here you are.” The Hound sounded almost smug. _Would Tyrion have been like this, after_? she wondered. It didn't matter. Here, now, there was only him. “And you'll stay with me. Yes, you will.”

“I will,” Sansa promised, as though saying it could make it true. She wrapped her arms around him.

 

And woke up.

The late morning sun was streaming weakly through her bedroom window, and the Hound was nowhere to be seen.

Sansa took a shuddering breath, and looked down. Her sheets were clean and dry and crisp. She raised a hand to her face, and her cheeks were wet.

Her dream was done.

 


End file.
